“How could you make him sick?”

“I thought I could save him. I tried. But it didn’t work. Not the way it should have.”

June hesitated then. She’d seen Sydney save small animals, knew what her intervention meant. “You resurrected Victor?”

The answer was barely a whisper. “Yes. I’ve brought people back before . . .” And then, still so softly, “But it’s harder, when they’re like us. You have to reach so much farther into the dark. I thought I grabbed hold of all the thread, but it was frayed, pieces everywhere, and I must have missed one, and now . . . his power isn’t working right.”

That last bit, like an opening in armor, a chance to ask the question that had plagued June since the day she brushed arms with the man in black. The mystery of his power—she’d glimpsed something, in Mitch’s mind, the vague shape of it anyhow, had gleaned more from the big guy’s fear, and from the careful way Sydney spoke, that Victor could do more than start cars or solve puzzles with his eyes closed.

“What is Victor’s power?” she asked now, heard the girl swallow audibly.

“He hurts people.”

A small shiver. “Sydney,” June said slowly. “Has he ever hurt you?”

“No.” And then, “Not on purpose.”

Anger cut through June like a knife. Anger, and the grim determination to pry Sydney free from Victor’s vise.

So far, she hadn’t succeeded.

It didn’t stop her from trying.

“If you ever want to leave . . .”

But June always knew the answer before it came.

* * *

JUNE sighed. Sydney still blamed herself for Victor’s situation, and until June could find a way to separate the girl from her shadow, Syd would say those same two words.

June put the phone away, turning her attention back to the task at hand, and the issue of Marcella Riggins. She plucked a framed photo

from the dresser. No question, the woman was a stunner. Black hair, pale skin, long limbs. Pretty in the way that made nothing else about you matter. June had been that kind of pretty, once.

It was overrated.

June tossed the photo onto the bed and went to the window, intending to keep watch for Marcella.

Instead, she spotted a black van idling at the mouth of an alley.

That wouldn’t do.

She donned the Mr. Gosterly costume a second time and went back downstairs. As she stepped through the revolving doors, she shed the aspect in favor of something even less form-fitting—a middle-aged man, haggard from too many nights spent sleeping rough. The homeless fellow staggered, as if drunk, and caught himself against the hood of the idling van. Then, without looking up, began to unbuckle his worn belt and relieve himself against the vehicle.

A door swung open, slammed closed.

“Hey!” shouted a voice, grabbing her borrowed body from behind.